Starsky shot awake to the sound of tin foil rattling.
"Oh, Hutch," he said once he'd blinked the sleep out of his eyes. The other side of the bed was warm but empty, his partner hunched on the edge and hacking his lungs out as he struggled for each wheezy breath. "Easy, easy," he sat up and rubbed his back soothingly, concern shooting through the roof as Hutch didn't even try to pull away and instead slumped against his shoulder, still coughing into his fist. "Aw, babe."
In all honesty, Starsky had been expecting exactly this; Hutch had been running himself ragged ever since he was shot, growing pale and tired as Starsky recovered. The scars on his chest and back twinged with phantom pain and he pulled his partner closer as the coughing tapered off.
"I'm okay," he croaked, in spite of the obvious fever.
Starsky sighed, "You're not."
He wilted a bit more. "No," he whispered. "'M not."